


desiderium

by peltonea



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Chapter 9 Spoilers, Episode Ignis Spoilers, Gen, Loss of Identity, Medical Inaccuracies, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-27 12:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14425608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peltonea/pseuds/peltonea
Summary: The Ring of the Lucii demands a much greater sacrifice. Ignis loses his identity instead of his eyesight.





	1. Chapter 1

Fire scorches the inside of your skull, a crescendo of agony that blots out virtually all else. Your left hand is aflame, unfortunately the same your head. 

The little awareness you retain flickers in and out, the ceaseless pain ever more unbearable. You can’t hear anything over the screaming, anyway— a continual, primal howling that obscures all sound.   


You lose all sense of time. There is nothing except for the searing heat turning your head and your left hand to ash. Even your scattered thoughts come to a standstill, the fog of suffering overwhelming every fibre of your being. 

You see a red-haired man, clad in black, walk away from you. His mouth moves, the words lost through the screaming. The cold stone beneath your cheek provides no relief from the unrelenting torture, and neither does the rain lashing down upon you. 

A man dressed in white stands over you for a moment, before leaving. 

The pain stops, suddenly. So does the screaming. You take a long, shuddering breath, lost in the blessed relief of simply not being in complete agony. 

For just a few moments, a few restful moments, you let your eyes slip shut. 

You’re vaguely aware of hands grabbing your face, your shoulders. Someone is speaking. You force your eyes open. 

“Hey!” A blond boy, face contorted in fear, leans over you. “Talk to me, buddy! Say something, please!” 

“What…” you croak. Your throat is raw, your words barely above a whisper. Were you the one screaming? “What happened?” 

“No idea, dude!” The boy helps you sit up; you feel faint, your limbs heavy and sluggish. “We were on the way here, but kept running into mechs and stuff. And… then we saw Ravus as we were coming up here, carrying Luna. What happened to you? Are you hurt?”

You’re not sure. You try to think— what came before the headache?

An image comes to mind. A man on a throne, bathed in ethereal light, crying out in undeserved pain as he’s impaled by crystalline swords.

A dream? Most likely. Unimportant right now.

You put the disturbing vision out of your mind and quickly take stock of your injuries. Despite the earlier pain, your left hand is just fine. You’re covered in bruises, with several shallow cuts over your arms which have already stopped bleeding. There are numerous grazes over your hands and wrists, and you seem to have a split lip.

Were you fighting? You’re not sure. You don’t recall anything from before your headache, except that strange dream.

“Can’t remember,” you rasp. “I’m not badly hurt. Where are we?”

The boy’s face freezes. An awkward, anxious smile.

“Uh… the altar? In Altissia?”

The Altar of the Tidemother. Sacred ground of Leviathan, Goddess of the Sea. She's the patron Astral of Altissia, the capital city of Accordo, an island nation under occupation by Niflheim. You know what those things are, even if you don’t remember how you got here. It’s a small relief, but relief all the same. You nod, and the boy still looks worried.

“Noct’s out cold, but otherwise he seems okay,” a man enters your field of vision. He’s tall, tattoos running down his well-muscled arms. He’s carrying a limp figure, and a pang of anxiety hits you.

Is the unconscious boy all right? Is he the ‘Noct’ the man is speaking of? You hope so. You open your mouth to ask.

The man looks at you, and speaks before you can try. “You guys good? We should get out of here.”

“Yeah, we’re basically okay,” the boy replies. “C’mon, let’s get you up.”

The boy helps you stand. It takes a minute, and you have to lean heavily on him, but he doesn’t complain. You’re exhausted, your legs less steady than you’d like.

“You think you can make it to the hotel?” The man’s brows are furrowed. He looks concerned.

“I’m not sure,” you croak. How far is the hotel? Perhaps if it’s just a few minutes walk, you’ll be all right.

The man considers this.

“Let’s give it a try,” he says. “If you can’t make it, then I’ll run ahead with Noct, and then come back to carry you. We’re gonna call a doctor as soon as we get back anyway.”

You nod, too tired to do anything else, vaguely glad that Noct is all right for now. Then you and the boy start moving. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. It’s an agonisingly slow pace, but you feel less cold now that you’re moving.

The area around the altar is more ruin than… well, anything vaguely resembling a habitable city.  


You limp past smashed statues, broken bridges, canals filled with rubble. There are broken mechs and MT units littering the ruins, and even a couple of dead couerls— why on Eos would there be couerls, a wildlife species, in the middle of Altissia? 

Even the ground is a wreck, shattered paving slabs sliding beneath your weight. The boy is an invaluable help to you, although he is clearly having difficulties of his own.

As you make your way between crushed buildings, along cracked boulevards and through ruined plazas, Altissia slowly begins to resemble a city. You see more whole buildings, the paving beneath your feet begins to even out. There are fewer broken bridges, fewer dead ends, fewer piles of rubble, fewer sunken areas.

People start to appear again: rescue workers, paramedics, city officials. They don’t pay your group much attention, the ruined city being a far more urgent affair.

Supplies are piled near enough around every street corner, boxes and boxes of bottled water and ration bars and first aid kits. You take a bottle of water as you pass a stockpile, vainly hoping that it will help to clear your head and soothe your throat.

“Oh, good idea dude,” the boy says, as you fumble with the lid. “We’ll get you some coffee when we’re back at the hotel, too.”

You nearly miss your mouth when you try to take a sip, but the boy stops and then helps you to steady your arm. The water makes you feel a little less fatigued, but it doesn’t help your throat much.

“Thanks,” you croak.

“You need to sit down?” the man asks. You shake your head. If you sit, you won’t get up again. You finish the water— there’s no bin nearby, so the boy takes it from you, crushing it in his hand. You’re not sure what he does with it after that, but you’re too tired to pay attention.

You press onward: now the city is almost whole, though completely empty. You focus all of your energy into keeping pace. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. The boy takes more of your weight than you’d like, but at least your legs don’t buckle beneath you.  


Eventually, you pass over one last bridge in a near-untouched section of the city. There are crowds of civilians here, climbing off lifeboats, looking shaken. The man you’ve been following veers right, heading into a lavish-looking hotel.

“Call a doctor,” the man orders, to the handful of anxious-looking civilians in the lobby. Staff, you’d assume, although you can’t be sure. They aren’t wearing uniforms. “Do it now.”

“Yes, sir!” one woman calls, in response, rushing toward the front desk. The man looks at the grand staircase, then at you, still leaning against the boy, and then heads toward the elevator.

The ride is mercifully short, all four of you crammed into a surprisingly small space. The man leads your entourage down a grand hallway, then through a door.

The room you enter is huge— there are two extra large double beds at one end of the room, covered with luxurious-looking quilts and pillows. Then, near the door, a living area with expensive-looking couches and coffee tables at the other. There’s a curtain rail hanging between the two sections, and you can see that there are thick-looking curtains pulled open, all the way to the wall. There’s an open door near the beds with a bath and a toilet clearly visible within. The suite is something of a mess, with clothes and cards strewn about, and used cups and plates stacked on a dining table in the corner. There’s even a sideboard with a kettle, and clean cups.

The boy leads you to the sitting area. You lean heavily on the couch, reluctant to sit on it while wearing such sodden clothes.

The man sets the limp figure onto one bed, then turns to you.

“Are you injured?”

“A few cuts and bruises. I may have concussion,” you croak. Concussions can cause amnesia, you’re sure of that. It would explain why you’re having such trouble remembering anything before the headache. It’s the only thing you can imagine might have caused this. “I’m not sure what happened before you found me.”

“That’s worrying,” the man says. He steps closer to you, carefully tilts your face up, looking intently into your eyes. “Your pupils look fine. Any nausea? Headache?”

“No,” you reply. “I had a headache earlier, but it’s gone now.”

“Huh,” the man steps back, scratches his short beard. “Okay, the first thing we should do is get you into something warm and dry, or you might get hypothermia.”

“On it!” the boy races to the bedroom area, paws frantically through a suitcase, and returns moments lated with a bundle of soft fabric in his hands. “Pyjamas!”

“He’ll need a towel, too,” the man says. The boy sprints off again, and the man turns to you. “I’m gonna get Noct changed into something dry before the doctor gets here. Prompto’s gonna help me with that. You just sit tight and try to relax, you look like hell. We’ll get some coffee brewed for you.”

The boy— Prompto, you guess— returns with a fluffy towel, before being sent off to get clothes and another towel for Noct. You croak your thanks, and wonder if you have the energy to stagger to the bathroom to change.

The man glances at you, and then pulls the curtain perhaps halfway across the room, giving you a little privacy. You untie your shoelaces, and neatly place the shoes near the couch, laces loosened and tongues pulled back as far as they will go, so as to dry faster. Then you set to work, peeling the rest of your dirty clothes off as quickly as your exhaustion and cold, clumsy fingers will allow. You dry yourself thoroughly, trying vainly to rub a little warmth into your skin without disturbing your cuts and grazes.

The bundle Prompto gave you also contains underwear and thick woollen socks, for which you’re immeasurably grateful. Once you pull on the loose sweatpants and the soft flannel shirt, you’re much warmer. You fold your dirty clothes, wrapping them inside the towel, and leave the bundle next to your shoes. Then you allow yourself to sink into one of the plush armchairs— if you lie on the couch you’re sure you’ll fall asleep, and you should definitely speak to the doctor before that. Sleeping with an unchecked head injury can be fatal, and you have no desire to die just yet.

The chair is so comfortable that you’re not sure you’ll be able to get up again. You lean forward to turn on the radio that sits on the coffee table, then lean back, relishing the way the chair seems to perfectly support your exhausted, battered body. You resist the temptation to close your eyes for a moment, and focus on the radio itself. It seems to be a news announcement, a pleasant female voice speaking through a haze of static.

_ “—forces retreated at some point after the awakening of Leviathan, although the full scale of damage done to the city is unknown. It is believed their goal was in some way linked to the Oracle’s holy ritual with Leviathan, which was due to take place today, although these reports have yet to be confirmed by the First Secretary’s estate—“ _

Prompto and the man reappear, apparently having finished changing Noct’s clothes. Prompto disappears behind you, while the man stays in your field of vision, a bundle of dark cloth in his arms. He looks at the floor, where you left your shoes.

“Those your clothes, in the towel?” he asks.

“Wasn’t sure what to do with them,” you rasp. You can hear a bubbling noise and faint clinking from behind you. Perhaps that's the coffee that you were promised.

“Probably best to get them laundered. I’ll ask the maids later,” the man decides, and vanishes into the bathroom with both bundles. You turn your attention back to the radio— the news announcement seems to have finished, and tinny violin music plays instead. You’d hoped that perhaps you might find out what happened earlier, fill in the missing blank somewhat.

When the man returns, he sits in the other armchair, stretching his long arms before he pulls a small book from somewhere. Prompto darts back into your field of vision, holding a steaming cup of coffee out.

“Promised you coffee, didn’t I?” he grins. “There’s more if this stuff is okay. You know I don’t make it much, but..." Prompto trails off, chuckling nervously. “I found the cafetière and your fancy blend, so it should at least be drinkable. I hope.”

“Thank you,” you reply, taking the cup gratefully. 

Prompto flops down on the couch, stretching himself out as he plays on his phone. You sip your coffee, feeling a little more alive and a little more warm almost instantly. Regardless of Prompto’s fears, the coffee seems decent enough— pleasant, even. It’s bitter, although not overwhelmingly so, being almost nutty in taste. There’s a note of something fruity, too. You wonder where the beans are from.

“I know today’s been… kinda awful,” Prompto says, sounding as exhausted as you feel. He taps his screen rapidly, not looking up. The man glances over at Prompto, then back to his book. “The city got destroyed and there’s a lot of people dead. Good people, too. But… I’m glad we’re all okay. I was so scared that there’d be an empty space in the room tonight. Or that maybe none of us would make it back at all.”

“We were fortunate,” you say. You saw the devastation of what must have been a beautiful city. It’s remarkable that so many civilians survived whatever had destroyed Altissia— the First Secretary must have had an excellent evacuation strategy.

“Give yourselves some credit,” the man says. “The Empire won’t get rid of any of us that easily.”

“Yeah, I guess so…” Prompto trails off. “Anyway, I’m glad we all made it out in one piece.”

You nod in agreement, and sip your coffee. Whatever happened, it’s over now. Things can only get better from here.


	2. Chapter 2

The doctor arrives shortly after Prompto falls silent, a middle-aged woman with dark hair and glasses. The man rises to greet her, then guides her to Noct. You can’t see them behind the half-drawn curtain, but you can make out the low, indistinct murmur of quiet voices.

You wait, concentrating on the next song on the radio— a mournful piano tune, a woman wailing in harmony with equally mournful flutes. Fitting for a day so filled with disaster, you think. Prompto continues to tap his phone, grunting in frustration every so often. He holds the phone far too close to his face— he’ll ruin his eyesight, you think. You’re sorely tempted to tell him that.

After a surprisingly short examination, only a few minutes by your estimation, the doctor returns with the man to the living area.

“Your friend is most likely just exhausted,” the doctor says. “I can’t be sure until I examine him after he awakens, but he shows no sign of injury so far.”

“Good to hear,” you croak, a weight you weren’t aware of lifting from your shoulders.

“Man, am I glad to hear that!” Prompto punches the air, a smile playing at his lips. The man nods, clearly relieved, and returns to his seat, his book once again appearing in his hand.

“I’ve been informed that you have injuries that need attending to,” the doctor says, turning to you.

“Oh,” you reply, rolling back your sleeves to show her the cuts and scrapes. “They’ve already stopped bleeding. You should see to the others first.”

“Prompto and I aren’t hurt,” the man interjects, not bothering to look up from his book. “None of your self-sacrificing bullshit today, thanks.”

“I’ll clean those for you,” the doctor says. She moves a dining chair so that it’s right next to the armrest of your chair, then sits down, blocking your view of the man. She rummages through the bag she brought with her, taking out antiseptic and gauze. “Gladiolus believes that you may have a concussion, so I’d like to run through some standard questions. I understand that you’ve strained your voice, so I’ll try to keep it to a minimum. Could you confirm your name, our location, and today’s date for me?”

You hesitate.

You… you actually can’t remember your name. That’s not good. You set your cup on the coffee table, to hide the way you can’t quite stop your hands from trembling. Don’t panic, you tell yourself. It’ll be fine. The doctor will be able to help you.

“I don’t recall my name, we are in Altissia, and I believe that today is the fifteenth of September.”

The doctor doesn’t react, merely begins snapping on a pair of latex gloves. From the corner of your eye you can see that Prompto has stopped playing with his phone, face turned to look at you. You concentrate on the doctor instead.

“Can you tell me who the current monarch of Lucis is?” she asks. She douses a folded piece of gauze, begins working methodically over your injuries. The antiseptic stings.

You concentrate on her question. A face doesn’t come to mind, but a name does. Regis Lucis Caelum, one hundred and thirteenth monarch of the Lucis Caelum dynasty. Except… no, that’s not right, is it?

“There isn’t one. King Regis is dead, and the crown prince hasn’t ascended the throne yet.” You’re sure that’s correct, even if you don’t remember where you got that information. Did you read it somewhere? A newspaper, an encyclopaedia?

“You were found at the Altar of the Tidemother. Can you remember what happened there?”

“I woke up with a headache,” you say. It’s hard to gauge how much detail the doctor wants. You hope it’s not much— your voice is starting to crack. She presses sterile dressings over the worst of your cuts, winding bandages over your arms to keep them in place. “My friends arrived shortly afterward, and we came here immediately.”

“And what happened before that? Before you woke up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you recall what you ate for breakfast this morning?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“All right,” she says, gathering her used supplies together in her hand, removing her gloves at last. She throws them in a nearby wastepaper basket.

The doctor has you touch both hands to your face, one at a time, presumably to test your co-ordination. She brings out a very small flashlight, closely examining your eyes. Then comes a steady flow of questions: are you nauseous? Dizzy? Does your head still hurt? Do you hear a ringing in your ears? Are you suffering any visual disturbances? Your answer is always ‘no’.

Finally, the doctor sits back, satisfied.

“You most likely have a minor concussion,” she says. “I don’t think you have any serious brain injury, although you’re clearly suffering from retrograde amnesia. You’ll likely recover most of your memory in a matter of days or weeks. Normally I’d ask that you come to the hospital and undergo some scans and extra testing, just to be safe, but Altissia General has been partially destroyed. Even with the evacuation, the Empire injured a lot of people. We’re already at full capacity.”

The doctor sighs.

“It’s not ideal, but… if your friends are willing to watch over you for the night, I’ll come back tomorrow morning and we can run through more tests. In the meantime, I’ll head back to the hospital and try to arrange a scan for you.”

You nod. Yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable. Her diagnosis eases the cold fear that’s been weighing down your stomach— you’ll be fine again in no time. You’d hoped that would be the case.

“That’s fine,” the man— he must be the Gladiolus the doctor mentioned— replies. “We’ll keep an eye on Ignis. You want us to call you if anything happens, right?”

“Yes, please,” the doctor answers. She stands, gathering her things. “Although if he suffers a seizure, just come to Altissia General immediately. I’ll return at noon, if I don’t hear anything from you.”

You thank her politely for her time, and when the door closes behind the doctor, the room falls into a silence that feels almost suffocating, broken only by the tinny radio music.

Gladiolus and Prompto both stare at you— Gladiolus looks as though he’s thinking hard, mulling over a puzzle, while Prompto simply appears anxious. You take your coffee cup in hand and gaze resolutely into its dark depths, unwilling to meet their eyes.

“So…” Prompto says, after a very long moment. “Your name. Pretty weird thing to forget, right?”

There’s something wrong with the tone of his voice. It’s too bright, too jovial, and there’s an undercurrent of something else there. Something you can’t place. You’re too tired to guess.

“I didn’t realise I’d forgotten until she asked,” you reply. It’s true. You wonder what else you’ve lost. You sip your lukewarm coffee, unhappy at that thought. 

"It's Ignis," Gladiolus says. "Ignis Scientia."

“Do you remember my name?” Prompto asks, sounding hopeful.

“It’s Prompto,” you reply. Gladiolus scoffs.

“I told you that earlier,” he says. “Let’s go for a hard question. Like… what’s that ring doing on your finger?”

You glance down— a ring sits on your left hand, where the pain earlier was concentrated. It’s small and discreet, an intricate design engraved in black and silver. You take the ring off, holding it up to the light. It’s terribly heavy, for something so small. You place it on the coffee table, along with your empty cup, feeling that wearing it again would be somehow wrong.

“I… don’t remember putting it on,” you admit. “Is it mine?”

Gladiolus cocks his head at that, and flat-out glares at you for a moment.

“It’s the Ring of the Lucii,” he says, sounding… annoyed? It’s hard to tell, with his serious face and gruff demeanour. “It belongs to Noct.”

The Ring of the Lucii. A priceless artifact passed down from generation to generation of Lucian kings. Said to be a gift from Bahamut himself, capable of granting indescribable power— but only to those of royal blood. Any others daring to attempt to wield it would forfeit life, regardless of their intentions.

If it belongs to Noct, then Noct must be a member of the Lucian royal family. No, more than that— the ring is held by the current monarch. With King Regis dead, and the Ring in Noct’s possession, Noct must be the crown prince.

And you’d forgotten that very important piece of information. It seems you’ve lost a lot more than a couple of hours and a few names.

“I forgot,” you say, slowly, and something of your inner turmoil must have shown in your expression, because Prompto bounces up, grabbing a camera from one of his many pockets.

“You know, all that talk about the ring reminds me, I took some awesome photos of the battles today! I even got a couple of Noct while he was fighting Leviathan— those ones aren’t great, but, like, it’s not every day you capture a god on film, am I right?” Prompto chatters, hardly pausing for breath. He perches on your armrest, leaning over you, and thrusts the camera before you. “Here, why don’t you take a look? This one is from when we were waiting at the First Secretary’s estate this morning, right before the evacuation!”

The photo he shows you is a selfie: Prompto and another man, this one with glasses and his hair gelled upward. Prompto has a wide grin, two fingers held up in the universal sign for ‘victory’. The other man has a wry smile quirking the corners of his mouth, casually leaning on Prompto’s shoulder.

“Very nice,” you say. You'd quite like to ask about what Prompto said just now, specifically about Noct 'fighting Leviathan', but you've a feeling that would only worry them further. And besides, it seems rude to simply ignore what Prompto is showing you so proudly, especially since it's a good picture. The lighting is wonderful—bright, but not blinding, nicely accentuating the gold of Prompto’s hair and the green of the other man’s eyes. You decide on another question, one less likely to worry your friends. “Who is that, by the way?”

“Who’s who?” Prompto asks, sounding confused.

“The man on the left,” you say. You haven’t met that man yet— or rather, you don’t recall meeting him. 

There’s a moment of silence. 

Perhaps you made the wrong choice. Perhaps you should have stayed quiet.

“Um,” Prompto starts, hesitantly. “Are you… serious?”

“I don’t recall seeing him before,” you say. You glance up— Prompto looks pained, looking toward Gladiolus, who rises and strides over in a few short steps.

“That’s, uh,” Prompto lets out a nervous laugh, still pale. Gladiolus doesn’t say anything at all, merely glares at the camera with an intensity that makes you uncomfortable. “That’s you, dude.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh,” you manage. Forgetting names is one thing, but your own face?

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Prompto adds, too quickly. “I mean, the doctor said you’ll be okay in a few days, right? You must’ve just, like, hit your head super hard or something.”

“Maybe you’re just tired,” Gladiolus says, slowly. He’s still glaring at the camera, but you don’t think he’s angry. “It’s been a long day for you, right? You probably just need to relax or something.”

“I… yes,” you murmur. Gladiolus is right. You’re exhausted and confused, and more than a little stressed at your lack of memory. If the doctor is right, you’ll feel much better in the morning. You’ll probably have a good laugh at yourself, for forgetting all these important things in the first place. You’ll probably even be able to speak properly again, without pain or cracking. “Yes. I... I think I ought to retire for the night.”

“Right,” Gladiolus nods. He steps back, allowing you to rise, staggering over to the bedroom area. Prompto moves out of your way, practically vibrating with anxiety, eyes too bright.You can feel their gazes burning your skin as you walk, supporting yourself on the furniture and the walls.

Someone already drew the curtains in the bedroom area, blocking out the evening light. Noct lies on the bed to the left, with only the steady rise and fall of his chest indicating that he’s not a corpse. You climb into the other, carefully ignoring the hushed voices coming from the living area. You can’t quite get comfortable, despite the luxuriously cushioned mattress, or the delicate softness of the pillows, or the smooth, silken sheets you wrap around yourself. You could almost laugh— oh, of course, you lost your name and your face, of course you’d lose your favourite sleeping position too.

You don’t laugh, though. Instead, you squint through the dim light at the clock on the wall— it’s not even seven in the evening— and squeeze your eyes shut, willing your battered body to relax. Everything will be better tomorrow, you tell yourself. It will. It has to be.

Despite the caffeine and the anxiety flowing through your veins, it doesn’t take long for sleep to claim you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The date of Leviathan destroying Altissia isn’t specified in-game. However the in-game timeline, as can be found in Episode Prompto and Zegnautus Keep, makes absolutely zero sense. So, I’m going to totally ignore canon and place Altissia in mid-September. Game chapters 10 to 13 therefore happen in mid-October or early November. 
> 
> I am not a medical professional, so please excuse the many mistakes I am going to make. I’m aware that IRL someone presenting Ignis’ symptoms would be treated quite differently than here— i.e., they would definitely be admitted to a hospital, kept under observation, undergo brain scans and various other tests every few hours, etc. But this is set in a city devastated by a literal god which has healthcare services so great that trained professionals decide to give a newly blinded man a walking aid. So yeah. OTL


End file.
